


Crushed petals

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, self-care is writing pseudo-historical AUs without homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15792003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Someone Ian should have expected but somehow didn't comes to him with a request.





	Crushed petals

**Author's Note:**

> With a dash of Ian/Connor.  
> Born from extensive talks with Grizz.  
> Ian and Melvin are police officers, Connor is a university professor.

Ian opens the door, wondering who might be needing them at five in the morning (the question why _he_ is up at this time himself is beside the point).

The person standing behind the door is someone he didn’t expect to see—although, in hindsight, it should have been obvious he would come.

Ian looks him over then steps back. “Come in, Mr. Prince.”

Ian leads him to the kitchen, and tries not to stare at the way the crime boss moves—wooden, with pauses, as though it takes him some time to remember he _should_ move. He lowers himself on the edge of the couch—or rather, falls, if Ian is being truthful. Drops like a dead body.

Ian doesn’t like to think about him like that. He’s just made tea for himself, and the water is still hot, so he takes a fresh cup and pours some for Mr. Prince. He looks like he needs warmth. He looks like he hasn’t felt warm in a century.

Ian puts the cup in front of him on a small table and gets no response.

Ian cannot fit the brilliant, terrible, loud and bright Nomad Prince into this broken frame, staring at the cup and steam rising over it with vacant eyes. There’s little green left in them. His tightly braided red hair is matted and wet, the golden earring in his left ear bent out of shape, tattoos on his chin covered in patches of stubble. Ian notices gray ribbons in those braids.

He should detain him.

After Melvin… After what happened, there were rumors, as there always are, and the things they were talking about were to be expected.

_(There was a small tasteful bouquet on Melvin’s desk every morning. Petunia, iris, daisy, morning glory, thistle, sweet pea… First, a mystery to no-one but Melvin himself. Then, a reason for the morning blush on his cheeks._

_It was a long courtship.)_

They were prepared for the worst, for a gang war. It never happened.

What did happen was six of Anton’s men disappearing and their bodies turning up with injuries speaking of the simplest of weapons: bare fists. Beaten to death. They were very specific men. Even Ian didn’t know two of those names and faces—though it was difficult to recognize anything human in them.

After that, they prepared for another gang war, now in retaliation for those killings—but the Russian was quiet, and there was a small poppy wreath on Melvin’s grave in addition to the lily bouquet that was changed every day, and a glass of vodka with a piece of black bread covering it.

He should be detaining the Nomad Prince. Dandolo’s hands are busted and covered with a crust of blood; his coat is torn, dirty, splotched with dark brown spots.

Instead, Ian pushes the cup closer to him and says in the most gentle voice, “Please drink.”

Dandolo’s hands shake so terribly that he spills some of the tea on the table. But he drinks, and some of that determination, of the emerald brilliance returns into his eyes. He looks up at Ian. “I need a favor, Colonel.” His voice is rough, as though he hasn’t had a conversation in weeks. As though all sounds he’s let out all those weeks was a scream or a roar.

Ian puts his hands in front of him on the table, palms flat. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. Prince.”

Dandolo looks away briefly, and Ian notices a long bloody line on his neck. Looks like a cut, though obviously not deep. Dandolo’s gaze turns from the window, to the floor, to the wall, to the table, to Ian again. “I need… I’d like to have his things. Anything. Even something small.”

Ian tries to keep a gentle expression. Dandolo’s face is gray, like he’s risen from a grave. Ian thinks he’s halfway there, actually, under a small unassuming stone marker.

Dandolo lowers his gaze again, his hands tighten around the cup. “I understand, you all were his family, I have no claim to—”

“Everything,” Ian says softly. “You may take everything. I think he would have wanted you to. Come here whenever you are ready, whenever you’d like. It’s summer holidays, and my husband is rarely out of the house.” He hastens to get up. “I’ll make you more tea, Mr. Prince.”

He turns away quickly. Allowing Dandolo to shatter with dignity.

**Author's Note:**

> Send me your tears.


End file.
